CHAPTER ONE: ROBBY
Children have an uncanny, intuitive knowledge of power and hierarchy. Even at age nine, Terry knew she could create situations where she could control the fate of her one-year younger brother, Robby. She had several of the neighborhood boys take him into a field and hold him down, where they first gave him a very traditional pink-belly and then they cut switches and laid into his bare arms, stomach and thighs until his tears and cries had mixed and subsided. When they finally let him go, Robby went off to deal with his confusion and his anger. He ran his fingers over the thin, raised welts, again and again. As his eyes dried, he studied the criss-cross pattern of random excitement applied by older children. Robby spent the rest of the day watching his anger fade with the welts, remembering their pleasure at the application of the switch, and gradually realizing his own juvenile arousal.
The next day I begged them to do it all again. Being oh so cruel, they refused.
PHARAOHS AND SLAVES
We all come from thousands of years of pharaohs and slaves. Guess which side you were on. Then, about two hundred and thirty years ago, a group of all white men said, “we can do better” and Thomas Jefferson locked himself in his room with his violin and his slave and came up with “all men are created equal.” These words contained an immutable and irrefutable truth. Within sixty years, major powers began outlawing slavery (Great Britain did it first). Then, we began to realize that as long as there was an economic pharaoh, there would be slaves, and the labor movement began. Shortly after that it became clear that the residue of slavery, racism, would have to be forever banished if the truth we all craved was to become reality. In the historical wink of an eye, we next began to address sexism, the oldest ism, the ism that existed before the barriers of locality began to fall, allowing racism. Today, it is our privilege to continue the clean-up, and now we include ageism as well. Soon we will realize that the right to the equal pursuits of happiness include the right to pursue the sexuality of our choice. We see this process beginning as “all persuasions welcomed” becomes a concept accepted by more and more people, around the beloved terra firma.
There is one central theme in all this, intrinsic to understanding modern BDSM sexuality. It is a theme created by the fall of pharaoh. It is reflected in the work place, the eating-place, and the play space. Simply put; there is a difference between involuntary servitude and voluntary submission.
OFFER
“Offer slave!!” The slave strains to offer. Tied in bondage so restrictive that nothing can move, blindfolded so that Master can not see the eyes, gagged so that there can be no sound, the slave lets me know the offer has been made. The breath has grown more even; it comes from a place even deeper than before. A voice that cannot be heard is crying out, “take it all, my beloved Master.”
I teach my slaves that offer is a very complex action. It is not simply a motion that protrudes the breasts, or pumps up a cock, or makes any other part of the body more available. The slave is taught that it is not an offer until it is a craving. The slave must crave the next level of intensity so totally that I cannot resist the offer.
Slave shine was tied in the bondage chair, the one Madame and I had designed, where he was receiving a very substantial whipping from the lash of The Baroness and Madame. This was a textbook, classic, page 96, serious flogging. I was watching from the stairs that led down to our little inferno. Whenever I noticed shine starting to emerge from the submission, I would lean into the edge of the heat and in soft and low voice say, “Offer slave.” Each time the breathing became more regular and the trance more encompassing. Each time, shine strove to crave a blow harder than the previous one, but far more importantly, he craved the ability to satisfy the two remarkable women who had accepted the gift of his sexuality. To offer is to crave so deeply that the offer cannot be refused.
SM is an art. It probes into the psyche and expands our definitions of our selves. The art calls for knowledge of tools, materials and techniques. Then, like all the arts, it calls for individual creativity that leads to better communication amongst the people that share an interest in the art form. “Offer slave” is a part of the vocabulary in my approach to the art. This is high-powered sexual communication. Even the act of offering can create new inspirations. My Domlust soars when a slave learns to offer. When I feel slavecrave, I know that I am free to create. I have been offered a loving canvas on which to paint.
“Offer slave” is a fun orgasm toy. “Offer me an orgasm slave!” mayipleasecomeMasterplease. “NO SLAVE, OFFER ME AN ORGASM!” Masterhereismy orgasmpleaseacceptit. “NOT YET SLAVE, OFFER MORE.”Notice that was not-offer me it again; it was offer me more. You now know that that means crave. Crave to give Master the profound satisfaction of your orgasm. “HOTTER SLAVE, OBVIOUSLY I CAN STILL RESIST YOUR PLEA. OFFER SO DEEPLY THAT I CAN NOT REFUSE YOUR GIFT!” ohMasterpleasestopori’llcomeMasterpleaseacceptmyorgasm. “BETTER SLAVE, DEEPER THIS TIME.” The slave’s voice becomes more distant and yet closer. The slave is more lost than before, and yet that much closer to finding the depths of slavesoul in an offering. Hundreds of near orgasms later, I allow the slave relief. The writhing is exquisite; the slavemoans totally arousing. The gift is worth the wait. “Master, did my orgasm please you?” is a beautiful sound. I have had an excellent experience. The gift of slavecome is a powerful aphrodisiac. The slave’s offering has made me crave. I take all that has been offered and explode in the head-swirled saturations of Dominance. And then, the slave thanks me! It is as if the canvas has thanked the artist for the gift of self.
SLAVELUST
It’s the way the eyes glaze over. It’s the flush in the cheek. It’s the foundation for devotion. It’s a heart racing like never before. It’s labia engorged to the maddening point. It’s cock so hard it foretells the unavoidable explosion that must be avoided at all costs. It’s the tone in the voice; the tone that says, I am yours. It can be the very basis of a relationship.
It’s slavelust. It is what makes this Master desire his slaves. It is what lets me know that I can go further this time; that my slave is whatever I want to do. It is the tool for introduction. It is the path for creativity. It is what makes the slave crave perfection for the Master. It is what makes the slave servile. It is what makes the slave love the Master. It is what makes the slave.
“What is the purpose of a slave?”
“The purpose of a slave is to stay as hot as the Master wants for as long as the Master wants, and to serve his pleasure at all times.”
Every slave I’ve had in the last ten years has learned this mantra. I don’t mean that they’ve learned to say it, although they all have. I mean that in their slavesoul they’ve learned that this is what makes them slave. I will gladly leave a new slave aroused for days until they understand slavelust. I will play with them as much as I choose (and I choose to play with them as much as time permits) and leave them on the edge of orgasm again and again. I will stroke the cheek and pinch the nipples and slap the cock and rub the pussy and watch as the delirium sets in and resides in the slaveheart for days or even weeks. Lucky slave. I will enjoy the total dedication to Master that evolves as slave realizes how hot they are becoming. I love to see, to take as my own, the enlightenment, understanding and insight into their slavesouls as slavelust and my palm and fingertips become the slave’s world.
“More sex, slave. Send it from your swelling, throbbing clit into my fingers. Send it from your slavesoul into your cock to my palm. Get me hotter slave! Deeper slave. The slavelust is so very deep in you. Reach for it. You need to reach deeper and GIVE ME MORE SEX, SLAVE.” The body desires the orgasm, but not as much as the slave desires to please. The slave craves explosion, but that is secondary to making the slavelust grow for my pleasure. Do not ask for whom the balls toll, they toll for Master. They call out not for orgasm, but for greater desire. “If you come this month slave, it will be for my pleasure, and right now, I only want you hotter. MORE SLAVE.”
If you are a sexual being, (why else would you still be reading this?) then you know what it feels like to lust for someone. You may know the other side of this yin/yang. You can recognize when someone is lusting for you. This energy is the starting point.
If you want to introduce your lover to some Dominant energy, try this. Sometime when the lust is flowing and the pheromones are in bloom, kiss your lover; but just barely. As soon as your partner starts to respond, pull back. Watch the startled look in the eyes. Do it again. This time, when your partner goes for your lips, pull back and tell them not to grab. Then do it again. Tell them they must be still. Tell them it’s rude to grab. Then kiss, barely kiss, again. And again, and again. Now pay attention as the desire begins; the want of your lips, the need for the kiss to be longer and deeper. These short unfulfilling kisses will make the lust rise and race. Often, you will need to be quick, almost reflexive, to get your lips back as lust overwhelms your partner’s control, and they make a stab for your lips. When nipples harden and breath quickens, you’re seeing slavelust begin.
The first time this was done to me, by my friend (not Dom, just friend) Star, I could feel the entire dynamics of our relationship changing. Star teased me like this for about thirty minutes. I felt myself slipping into a place where I craved nothing more than the fullest touch of her lips on my own. By the end of the half an hour, Star could have tied me up, or down, and done anything her little novice heart desired. I was stricken with slavelust. oh please, just a kiss. i beg you. just a kiss.
slaves lust for Master’s touch. They lust for our pleasure. They lust so they can be taken further and further into their slavesoul. They lust because a Master knows how to make them lust. They lust because they trust their Master. They lust because they have little choice; “The purpose of a slave is to stay as hot as the Master wants for as long as the Master wants…” They lust because they need satisfaction, and their satisfaction exists for their Master, not for their own selfish needs and being. The better trained the slave, the better they are at providing Master with slavelust. “Reach deeper inside yourself slave, and give me your reason to be.” slaves lust because they no longer exist for their own pleasure, but for their Master’s pleasure. Their lust is not common lust, it is slavelust.
Their passions are literally for their Master. We do what we want with their passions, when we want their passions, which is why it is the Master’s responsibility to take the slave to this level of communication and leave them there. Leave them in their slavelust so they can be used, fully and totally used, at a moments beckoning. Leave them hard, or wet, for long periods of time, or for fleeting and ethereal moments. Brush their lips or whip them into frenzies and they are lost in slavelust. Help your slave to understand the importance of slavelust. Guide them to the depths of this power filled current. Teach them to call it forth, for you. Help them to find their slavelust and let them offer it to you. For days, weeks, months and lifetimes. It is important to remember: a slave’s world can fit in the palm of your hand, as well as the center of your soul.
THANKS MATE
To all the mates who play SM with their partners out of love, not lust, congratulations. You are a very special group. I mean those of you who do not have SM sexualities, but yet, in your desire for a full, healthy and enriching relationship, do it because your lover enjoys it. You are very special people.
Here at La Domaine Esemar, we see a constant chain of people who have mates who will not explore their partner’s sexuality with them. These people have often been told to bury their desires, their sexual personas. They are alone in what should be their sea of shared passions. They come here because they realize that all people have an entitlement to pursue their happiness and sexuality is part of a healthy adult’s happiness.
Of the hundreds who have visited, I have yet to meet a single one who does not wish that their partner would play with them. I have met many who are afraid to even mention their desires to mates they have been with for decades. Most of these people “said something years ago” and got flatly rejected or worse, they got told they were sick and at the next mention of such a terrible thing could expect the filing of divorce papers. Yet there are those of you who have said, “I can do this for you. You are not terrible, I love you and will explore with you.” These people may not ever find what we find in SM sexuality, but what they do find is something to cherish: another aspect to their love.
Santayana (the philosopher, not the Mexican General) said: “Love is a physical drive with an ideal intent.” I often wondered how these wonderful people can share this sexuality if the physical drive of SM is not there. I have gradually come to understand that the intent of their love is to allow their partner their own ideal and their own physical drive. In doing so, many of these giving people find a different form of physical fulfillment within the SM context. Their satisfaction is different from their partner’s, but it is, nonetheless, a deeply meaning filled satisfaction. I know because I have been told this many times by the mates who play SM simply out of a desire to share their partner’s sexual interests.
This leads to another issue. What of those who have not given their mates the chance to share their SM needs with them? We also have many visitors who feel they cannot tell their partner of their secret desires. No doubt, many of these people are correct; they know their mates well enough to be right in anticipating rejection if they were to mention what they wanted. Yet, over and over, we have met people who did not say anything for decades, and when, in desperation, they finally did speak of their needs, they found out their partner would gladly share their sexuality with them, and would have all along. I would suggest that they have not been fair to their partner. I have seen the stress this non-communication puts on an otherwise loving and balanced relationship.
So what’s a lover to do? Keep their sexuality repressed inside, speak and face rejection, or secretly visit a professional establishment to get their very real needs answered? I feel the first approach is next to worthless. The second approach is acceptable if you know, beyond any doubt, that you will not be meet with scathing rejection. I do not mean met with a casual “oh that does not interest me.” If that is what you anticipate, you owe it to your relationship to be more open and honest. The worse case scenario here is not as bad as the dishonesty of never speaking of your needs. The third solution, visiting a Dominatrix, seems more valid to me than going through life without coming to understand your own sexual being. But, in deepest respect of all those who have said, “Yes, I will try this because I love you,” I want to suggest one other path: the subtle advance.
Subtlety is a wonderful thing, almost lyrical when it is in a sexual manner. If you don’t know what the response to your SM desires will be, here is one great tool to use to find out. Silk scarves. Pull them out from under your pillow when the passion is flowing and with a soft and lust-crazed tone say something like “May I put these around your wrists” or “would you like to try tying me down?” The reason this works well is simple: silk is so non-threatening. Rope has connotations and is visually upsetting to some. However, silk scarves are soft, flowing, delicate and even gentle; all terms we usually associate with making love. I won’t go into how to proceed from there, other than to say: if it works, let your lover know your appreciation afterwards and let them know how long you have wanted to try this, and how much it means to you that they are willing to explore this with you and how relieved you are to have this out in the open and how much you love them and etc, etc, etc.
Not all mates will respond in the hoped for manner, but in all fairness to yourself and the one you love, don’t you think your lover deserves the opportunity to respond positively to your sexuality before you close it down or take it elsewhere? If you are one of the many who find their mate will play with them out of love and respect, you will be glad you had those silk scarves under your pillow. If you are even more astute in picking a mate, you may find out you have a lover who shares your interest and that SM has been a part of your mutual attraction all along. You may even find yourself with a new strength in your relationship, a strength built on a sexual respect that has been there all along. If you are the mate, I hope, should those silk scarves suddenly appear, you use your physical drive to motivate your desire to share with your lover. I hope the ideal intent will take you to new depths of meaning and whole new levels of involvement. You will be among those wonderful lovers I have thanked at the beginning of this article, one of the precious many who care enough to go with their mate on one of their most important explorations. I suspect you will find the experience to build new trust, new levels of devotion into your relationship.
And what the heck…if it does not work for you, you will have some nice new silk scarves to wear. If it does work, you can wear them with a flair that says, “We care.” You can wear them here, with your mate, and you will know how much your mate appreciates you, and how much we respect you.
PANSEXUAL REALITY
I slipped the ropes around her waist, pulled them tight, took the working end and ran it between her legs. I could almost see her lips engorge as the rope cut deeply in between her labia. I felt my cock swell in communication with her lust. Slipping my hand down I felt the wetness. My own pussy sighed in joyous communication and her cock hardened in my hand. I felt my nipples turn to hard little berries as the cock in my hand became rigid. The ropes that had run through her labia now are tightened on the base of his cock. He moaned, a soft mixed moan, one that showed the attempt to understand what was happening. I rubbed my wetness against him and moaned in return, as I stroked my cock and rubbed my clit. We were both lost in the intensity of our metamorphosis.
Something in this room allows this to happen. We do not even attempt to question, much less understand. My hand returns to my sex, only to find I have changed again. Now my breasts are large, full and firm. I rub them against the slave, the victim of forces unexpected, except by me. slave now has a cock and breasts. “Haven’t you always craved breasts like these” I whisper in the soft shell of her ear. Her cock swells even more and I reach for it. By the time my hand arrives at the center of his sex, I once again find labia. I offer my cock to her mouth and her tongue on my clitoris sends an electric shock through me. I moan and pinch my nipples, then his. I pinch hard and they soften and small breasts now fill the cup of my palm. The curve of the back, the shape of the ass is now feminine. Her mouth on my clit makes me delirious for cock and I feel myself harden and my cock puts a small drop of dew in his mouth. He moans again, lost in the rapidity of the changes.
Master please, allow me to come. I have never had a pussy before. “I know that slave,” is all I say, feeling my pussy twinge in response to the plea. slave pushes his pussy into my hand and I feel the wet desire raging. I slide a delicate, feminine finger inside and rub my own clit. slave’s hand is untied. “Stroke my cock now slave,” I command and the slave’s hand drops to my cock. Now his lips are red and full and they are saying please please, over and again. I kiss her full on the lips and pull on her long flowing mane of jewel black hair. Her tongue craves the tip of my cock. I know and I crave her cock. I kiss across the softness of her cheek and down her throat. I play with the small manly nipples, barely large enough for the clamps I am applying. I run them from the tip of his nipples to his ball sack and tighten them viciously. Then I run the chain to the tip of his clit and back to her earlobes. This transmigration of body and soul completely takes my slave. I no longer know if I am male, female or all points in between. My cock is pussy. My slave is woman. My slave is man. She swallows my cock and my pussy juice runs down his strong chin. His cunt is open, aching to be full. This room has us both in our minds and in bodies the slave never knew; slave’s body and mine.
I know this room. I know how it feels to have both a cock and pussy and feel flesh transform in lust and mad desire. Many times I have felt my breasts enlarge at my own will. Many times I have placed slaves in these bonds, the bonds of their own rampant sexualities. I have felt them slip into this pansexual power. I have observed their bodies shudder and shift to the very essence of their sex and persona. Now I untie his pussy, pull the ropes harshly from around his balls. With my fingertip, I flick the drop of procreation from the head of her engorged cock and then I pinch hardened nipples while the slave looks at me through eyes both male and female.
I hear the soft woman tones begging again, please let me come, I have never had a pussy before and I pinch up and down the lips and stroke her opening. His eyes roll back and the soft tone again begs, please Master please. But now I am Mistress, with eyes flashing and my breasts heaving through my tightly corseted attire. Mistress with pussy inflamed and I want cock and her pussy is becoming hard and firm and I stroke the length of his shaft and tease him with my mouth. I hear my own soft woman voice say, “you will wait until I am fulfilled, slave” and I hear his deeply aroused, throaty growl, thank you Mistress.
Oh yes, this room challenges our very conceptions of our self. My cock is hard again, her pussy is open. I tied him to a standing cross and put clothespins all along his pussy lips and up to the tip of his cock. I rub my cock against his belly and feel my power and myself shifting once again as my pussy opens in a pulsing rhythm. I kiss down her belly, while my hands fondle her full breasts, making her moan, making her crave permission to release. My full, red lips now brush past her cock, down to the base, down to the swollen clit that begs for Master’s attention. I pinch and pull on her outer lips. I slid my tongue in between her legs. Her soft thighs part and my hard cock enters his pussy. Please Master please, I am begging, my pussy needs to come, please Master. My long nails dig in her lips, I pull and she kisses my throat. I run my strong hands through her short hair as my deep-throated woman’s voice says, “you may come slave.” I feel him start to shake and his pussy swells with the pace of my entrance.
she is racked with passions unknown to those who do not know this room. she is lost in a pansexual world of her own cock and pussy and breasts and ovaries and hormones and balls and skin and hair and all that is he and all that is she. My cock swells, my pussy gushes, my nipples harden. I fall against his chest and struggle to keep my balance. It is all balance. The passions reside within. We are all things. We are all that is sexual. We are all sex. I wipe a small tear from his cheek and tenderly kiss his lips.
OUR UNALIENABLE RIGHTS
My favorite misquote is: “the inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness…” Most people do not even spot the mistake. It is an enormous error. This misquote has led our society into a level of misunderstanding that has crippled the growth of our people, our nation and our world. It affects every aspect of our daily existence. It contains the difference between involuntary servitude and voluntary submission. Correctly stated, Jefferson’s insight-filled Declaration has the true seed of freedom. It is actually, in the document of genius, written: “the unalienable right to…”
Change the I to a U, believe in the correct meaning, and we have a different society, at least in the meanings of 1776. Inalienable refers to something within, approaching god-given. Unalienable means that which cannot be taken away, in this case, by any government. “We hold these truths to be unalienable” totally forbids any government from taking away a citizens life, liberty or their pursuit of happiness.
Our pharaohs still maintain that they have the right to kill. As long as they are allowed to maintain that right, we are in a state of involuntary servitude. We have now spent slightly over two hundred years trying to come to terms with Jefferson’s immutable words, yet our own leaders fail to grasp the most basic concept, the concept we need most if we are to end the old ways. As the U.S. continues to fail to accept “unalienable,” our society degrades. It is a simple reason. We pour our wealth into killing and maiming and denying people this fundamental first step of equality. War has always been one pharaoh’s slaves killing another pharaoh’s slaves. Democracy was meant to end this degradation. We must prevent King George from taking away our unalienable rights.
As we spend trillions of dollars defeating Democratic purpose, our might, our pharaoh’s power, has never been greater: but what of our Democratic intent? If we fail to grasp the right to life as unalienable, how can we progress to liberty, let alone the unalienable right to pursue your individual happiness? This is basic stuff. Liberty is knowledge, knowing you’re free and comprehending the enormity of the post-pharaoh world can never take place with an uneducated society. Our schools are a disaster. There is virtually no money to run them in any sort of a glorious manner.
The money has gone instead into the most glorious killing machine ever created. The money has gone into the antithesis of Democracy. We have an appalling infant mortality rate. The money for prenatal care has gone to killing. We have elders dying alone on the streets. The trillions wasted on subverting Jefferson’s ennobling concept are the direct cause of all of this. We have so little liberty because we have yet to grasp the first concept of Democracy. The government, in a Democracy, has no right to take any citizen’s life. Not just the citizens of our country are protected, but rather “all men are created,” endowed with these rights.
If we cannot conceive a society where pharaoh has no right to kill slaves, how can we hope to move on to the concept of a society where pharaoh cannot interfere with our liberty? Even further away is a society that comprehends the unalienable right to pursue happiness any way a citizen chooses. Our continued involuntary servitude to the pharaoh who subverts our unalienable rights is far more degrading, far more harmful, to the world citizenry than any individual pursuit of voluntary submission could ever be. To gain our liberty, to begin to move towards the right to pursue happiness, we must stand up to the pharaoh and say “no more killing. We have taken away your power to keep us in involuntary servitude.” Trillions of dollars will then be available to save our crumbling cities, our starving young and old, our crippled, our huddled masses. It is a process of understanding the most basic concept of our formation.
When we understand that the right to life is unalienable, not to be given or taken by any government, we can then move on to understanding the depths of our liberty and the depths of our passions. We will all remain in involuntary servitude until this occurs. The pharaoh will rule until his slaves refuse to kill. Then we can move on, and continue to explore the meanings of our nation’s creed.
The next time some slave asks you why you think schools are so bad, tell them it is because we continue to allow pharaoh to kill our children.
DEVOTION: THE DISNEY DOMS
Change in scene. When I was younger once, the world was smaller; at least the SM world was smaller.
Now, it’s the season of the Disney dom; what we at La Domaine Esemar refer to as the “pop dom culture.” Go into any large U.S. city, and read the back pages. Look in almost any small town rag and find a contact page complete with “I want to beat…” If that’s not your slice of meat, just look an ad or two further. In N.Y.C. or L.A. you can go to Disney dom world and choose one form column b and two from column d. At www. Disney dom dungeon, you can choose from the medical room, the x-dress room, the magic genie in your harem panties room, (that’s the one where you tell the dominant everything you want and expect to get it or you’ll never rub that bottle again) and room after room of Disney dom trying to outdo Disney dom for your dollar.
It used to take years to be a Dom. In the pre-hype world, one studied and/or slaved with a Master, generally until one had learned at least the very basic skills. Now one merely has to be over eighteen, have tits and live in N.Y.C. to be hired as a pro-dom in a major house. Never mind the decades of getting to know the psyche. Never mind the months to learn basic bondage skills. Throw a single tail whip with no training; there’s a good way to hurt someone. Now, why didn’t I think of that?
When I was younger, it was hard to find a Dom. When one found a Dom, one stayed with that Dom. Now they are easy to buy. This change has, in many ways, been very detrimental to our scene. The Disney dom world, for all its flash and fever, lacks what is, perhaps, the most important part of life as an SM believer. DEVOTION.
Last week, several of our family of Doms were discussing slaves’ lack of honesty regarding their seeing other Dominas. Madame and I believe our slaveys can see other Doms, but only as extensions of our hands. We are speaking here of not only the professional clientele, but the personal slaveys as well. When this goes on behind our backs, we are all hurt.
We are old fashioned and traditionalistic. We believe our slaves are ours. We try to understand the newly created social temptations of Disney dom, but see them as shallow distractions from devotion. No eighteen-year old with a whip, just hired by a “major dungeon” has insight. They may look like the hottest little morsel on your planet, but that just isn’t good enough. Slaves need more.
This is a buy-and-sell society. We believe we can fill our needs by purchasing what we are needing. Here’s news…you can’t buy the Pursuit of Happiness.
Submissives now think you can walk into a session with any Disney dom, spend an hour and leave knowing SM. If the dom you went to didn’t do it exactly how you wanted it, not to worry; next week, go buy a different dom. Pay her what her price is to show you her tits or lick her pussy. Do it until you believe you can buy your submission in the perfect one-hour session. Shoot your sperm and you’re done with it. Back on the street in sixty minutes and calling yourself a skilled SM player. At La Domaine we are used to the following exchange with callers. “I’ve played with lots of professional Doms.” “Can you tell us their names?” “oh…let’s see…what was her name?” Shallow. Appalling.
SM is a pursuit; for some, a lifelong pursuit. To be with a Master for years is how slaves learn to be extensions of their Masters. Slaves learn, only through being devoted, what is most subtle and most fulfilling to their Dom. In this process, a long one, they learn what is therefore most fulfilling to their slavesouls. SM is not a flighty subject. If you fall to your knees too many times, for everything that looks yummy, you’ll end up with very sore knees and not much in your heart. But if you practice Devotion, you will grow with your pursuit of happiness. You will fulfill your promise to your Dom.
It upsets me to see the current state of affairs in the SM world. My N.Y.C. friends, some of them, have no idea of the depth of erotic communication available to them in SM. They flit from one club to the next, from Dom to Dom, thinking they are “into SM.” All they do is scratch the surface and misguide their self in distorted reflection. As to the professional scene; with the exception of a very few skilled, and generally somewhat older, Dominas and submissives, it is even worse.
This lack of devotion, the sheer amount of available popcorn, has destroyed the core energy. The place where SM exists in a person is so often overlooked for the best looking outfit or fanciest, multi-roomed fully staffed house of torture, that there is very little personal growth involved. As important as it is to stay with a non-professional relationship, through devotion, it is even more important in the professional relationship. The professional (not our twenty-year old with a whip) has spent years accumulating knowledge and skills. Truly great ones, as a general rule, have done their time as slaves to other great Doms. Often they have been Devoted for years. They know the depths and the paths of pursuit for this happiness. They spend enormous amounts of time considering the needs of their submissives. When one is devoted to one’s Domina for years, the potential for depth, meaning and insight is virtually endless.
When I was a submissive, back in “my early days,” a Dom would share you with other Doms; Doms from a close circle of friends. That was how the need to see others was dealt with: permission at a party, or being given as a gift. You tried to do well as a slavey, because that would make your Dom very happy, and proud. Proud because they were Devoted to you and wanted to see you be all that you could be. The Doms were of similar minds and considered intents. All of this is lacking in the pop scene, where everyone crawls for anyone. Just waiting to be given was an act of Devotional growth. This week, I had a slave (not mine) tell me that he was so devoted, he was writing letters to five Dominas and telling each one of his devotion to her. I’m amazed he had the time, what with being out at the clubs every weekend looking for Domina # sixty whatever. I explained to him why he was finding SM to be shallow.
Let’s go to the legs of the example. I have heard that there are professional Doms out there that not only let slaves lick their pussies, but let them do it on the first or second session. Not from this Master! It takes devotion to lick my cock. slave it just got to suck after nearly two years of want. slave it has her own wonderful Master (Gary), and she had to understand/learn the ability to be devoted to Master R in the way her Master and I felt should be her total devotion. it has become the slave with the most understanding of devotion. She is totally devoted to her Master and yet she is totally devoted to her Master at La Domaine. She is also totally devoted to Madame. Now she can enjoy the delights she has earned. Licking pussy on the first visit has nothing to do with a deep, growing SM experience. Slaves have an enormous amount to learn before they should be allowed to be pleasure slaves.
Consider how little it means to walk in off the street, having no idea of the depths of slave devotion, choose a dom dujour, a person unaware of, or incapable of getting you to slave devotion, being “allowed” to suck her nipples – lick her pussy, come and leave, all within an hour.
Now consider what it would mean to be with a Master, as a devoted slave, until the Master feels you have earned the intimacy of sexual pleasure. Think of all the submission it takes, the scenes, the trust that develops. This is waiting; it is submission.
People today believe that they can purchase happiness. They feel they have an inalienable right to do this. If you want to be happy, buy a new car, toaster oven, etc. The unalienable right is the pursuit of happiness. The Disney dungeons, and the pop SM culture, sell you doms off the menu, like cheeseburgers. You eat them up and think you’re satisfied. Then on to the next fast female. So many restaurants, I can’t even remember where I ate last night.
Devotion is the pursuit of happiness. It is serious, submissive pursuit; the kind that can take a person to extraordinary places. This is a political issue. Do you want to be sold a pop culture, or be devoted? Do you desire to be a part of the movement of capital, or a part of the pursuit of happiness?
A BIT OF ROMANCE
There is this small dimple that I see when I look at her ass. It’s in her left cheek. When my lips brush it, I swear I can taste it. There is another spot like that on her thigh. I know this is just my senses reeling and streaming, but still, this arousal created by having touch translate as taste is one of her many beauties. When I get the fragrance of the back of her neck, just behind the ear, it is something I can hear, some little voice of creation telling me to kiss. When I hear her moans of orgasm denied, I feel them, I feel them in my finger tips, without the slightest touching of her flesh.
This morning, I sit listening to the stream outside the window. It is full from all the rains. I hear the rushing of the waters and I wonder if the water could be as brilliant and invigorating as when I feel our liquids mingle. Earlier, before getting out of bed, I felt the sun hit my face. With my eyes still closed, that became the warmth of her flesh, covering my cheeks. I tried to taste that sunlight as I taste her, but found instead her lingering sweetness on my lip. Then, barely later, the coffee was infused with a slight bitterness, and it was easy to turn that into her flavor. The sweetness, the warmth, the tang, it all made me wish that the coffee had a sound, and then I could hear the brew, as it entered my mouth. It turned into the sound of her labia.
The phone rang way too soon. A minor annoyance. I heard it clearly ringing out, Oh Master, I am coming without permission. It was a sorrowful phone call.
As I walk down the road, I see a large flock of brightly colored birds. The flame of red and the coal blacks are the vision of the whips as they move against her breasts. They all sing to me. The rustling of the branches become the indent in her skin, the indent of the moment of contact. It is the indent of the lash, of my flesh on her flesh, of her eyes as they plead. I see her blindfolded at this moment; I feel the indent of her loss of sight on the leather. I can only hear the flock of birds now; all I see is the position of her tied. The argument of the birds is her straining to stay bound and to be released.
She is food for Master. Breakfast is a first bite. Luncheon is munch. Dinner is her scent, her taste, her glance, her barely audible sounds. Each taste is her tongue ingesting me. Each taste is my tongue dissolving her.
Downstairs, she is waiting. I can scent the delicacy when I enter the house. I can taste the simmering. When I look at her tied like that, standing, arms so wide, moisture and arousal so tangible, I am breathing in thin air.
It takes six months to walk around her once. It takes nearly three hours for my hand to reach her face. Six days go by in her first shudder. I spend almost a year caressing her surface. Each bite requires a week. I have had her bound for at least three lifetimes. To untie her now would take an eternity.
Afternoon becomes a pool in which to dive. I look for exotic fish, for pearls, for rounded pebbles. The sunlight pierces through the waters, it is merely the overture. Twilight is a brief arbiter. Twice a day I can not tell if the sun is rising or setting. I can not tell if I am entering her or withdrawing. The night is never black enough. I still discern her outline.
When I see her like this, so tightly bound, I can taste her release, I can hear her long surrender. I can feel her flesh become hard as chain, and then transmute into clouds. Her bonds are ephemera, her marks are delight. The fountain of time could not emit a more seductive drink than the essence of the tear that I see on her cheek. I must mark her. It takes no implements.
She attempts to yield, forward into her shackles, straining to turn my thoughts into feelings. I am already all sensation. If I were to bite her neck, I would feel her toes. If I were to enter her with a touch, I would hold her totality. Her scent defines what I see, her sounds offer me visions.
My rope has become a fence around a pasture. My whips are the sound of the guitar, Spanish and impassioned. My dungeon is a transformation. Even the eight level stairs descending have become metaphor. My leather is the scent of mountaintops. My palm is a world.
She hangs in her chains. It is a measured release. I press against her. It is all restraint. I taste her dimple with my caress. I fill my hands with her hair and her eyes become a buccaneer’s treasure, a pirate’s hoard. I squeeze her sex. It would be brutality, but instead it is unmeasured time.
Ah, romance! The truth is that I love to hear her scream as the whips bite her flesh. When I smell her neck, I smell her sex. When I run my fingertips hard across her flesh, I love the feeling of her skin collecting under my fingernails. When I measure our time, I don’t use minutes, I use sensation. When I put her in restraints, I see flesh and blood and love and lust. Her orgasms are not rivulets or streams or even truths revealed. My dinner is not her being devoured. My twilight is not a short arbiter. My whips are not guitars.
My slave is my slave, my palm is her world. I breathe rich air, full and inspiring. I trust my senses, they are often reliable. My coffee is sweet and hot and very liquid.
EXPOSURE FOR A MASTER
I saw an ad in The Village Voice: “Photographer looking for ballet dancers and men with long hair for erotic bondage photography.” I applied for the position. Mark was the most sophisticated SM player I’d met to that point. He had a way of suggesting games that were way too extreme to be considered and then bringing a slave to the point of actually begging for their fruition. He’d come up with ideas that frightened me at first, but then they would play in my imagination until I could no longer resist their completion. He saw me far more accurately than I could see myself. He taught me to look beyond the concept of limits, into the concept of devotion.
I was hanging, quite comfortably, upside down, suspended by special boots that allowed long-term bat behavior. Master had coiled over fifty feet of twine around my balls and hung weights from my nipples. He was stroking my cock and, sotto voce, feeding me one erotic thought after another. Each thought was more extreme than the previous idea. So far, they had all been in the range I considered tolerable. Then came: “I want to put a metal spreader down inside your cock and run electric shocks through you to another wire in your ass!”
“oh no please Master no. please don’t, please, nopleasenopleaseMasterpleaseno…”
I saw Mark about a week later. The idea, by that time, had me crazed. I had to know if I could endure that, for him and for my own levels of lust and exploration. Of course, he made me beg for it. That’s a technique I still use, implant an extreme idea, then wait until the slave begs for it. First, he tied me to a bed, spread classic eagled, and allowed me the privilege of taking his cock in my mouth. I remember that there was a bottle of beer near by. I asked him for a swallow, kept it in my mouth and fizzed and bubbled him to the point of orgasm. He did not allow me the pleasure of his resolution. When he was fully aroused, he went and brought in a tray that had K-Y Jelly and an ominous looking metal tube. It also had a small electrical box with wire leads attached. My cock started to deflate as I started to panic. Then Master’s hand was holding me and my world was his palm. He took the tube of K-Y and put it at my opening.
One squeeze and I was ready for the metal. As the tube entered me, as my Master entered me, my cock swelled to engulf the metal. I was amazed. I was hard. Mark looked on with fulfilled expectation. He’d known a week before that I would come back and beg for this. The metal in my cock made me feel like I would burst. Mark slowly withdrew the tube and then let it slide in again by its own weight. My Master had filled me in a way I’d never conceived only one week previously. The pressure reached to the land between my ears. I looked over and saw the tray with the electrical box, and lost it. One mighty rush took my body into convulsions. Come oozed out around the metal spreader. I shook and moaned. The moan was partially, greatly, a moan of disappointment, of erotic fantasy left unfinished. I had craved the shock, the writhing, I thought would be allowed me by my Master. The metal tube refused to allow my cock to go down. I begged for the electricity, but my punishment for coming was obvious. I was refused. When Master removed the tube, the come turned ever so slightly pink.
“i’m bleeding, oh my god i’m bleeding. inside my cock Master i’m bleeding.”
I’d never shed blood for a Dom before. I was scared, horrified. Many times since then, I’ve repeated Master Mark’s disdain filled words, “Oh for Christ’s sake slave, it’s just a little blood.” Of course, he was right. Again.
That’s why they call us Masters.